


des nuits

by sunflowerseed



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-06-09 00:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15255657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerseed/pseuds/sunflowerseed
Summary: He’s American and his eyes are brown. These are two things Eames is almost certain of.





	1. Chapter 1

He’s American and his eyes are brown. These are two things Eames is almost certain of. He’s seen his ID at the pub — once — when the barkeep was giving him a hard time about the legitimacy of his legality. Eames could see that he was a finger-breadth away from losing his temper but instead, procured a New York State driver’s license (Arthur Isaac Bell, 650 W, 42nd Street, New York City, NY, 10024, Sex: M, Height: 5’11, Eyes: BRO, DOB: 12/24/1988). It was, in Eames’ less-than-expert opinion, valid or made such by a very skilled forge-man. Then, also, his eyes, cold as slate in the din of many other pubs but brown nonetheless, molasses in bits of morning sun through the smog, through the slats of improperly closed shutters.


	2. 1er

Arthur is crashing on a friend’s couch while he’s searching for an apartment in the city and Eames’ flat is thirteen tube stops and two transfers across town. They’ve known one another for exactly two hours and fourty-eight minutes (including the 16-minute walk to Arthur’s apartment). Arthur neglects to turn on a light and Eames’ eyes go about adjusting so that he can make out glimpses of all-American skin from the green light off the oven clock and light pollution from the city creeping in the window.

The compulsory silence required by the limited space in your typical London flat and your slumbering host provides a certain air of anxiety. An anxiety that feels achingly sweet in your bones all the way to your teeth. That, Eames thinks when Arthur leans hard into him. Through the thin cotton of his shirt he can feel the warmth of his skin; how solid his body is.

That, he thinks again, there. His hands coast up and under. He can feel Arthur’s ribs faintly, bumps of bone and shallow pits of muscle between to protect his lungs, his heart.

‘ Your hands are freezing.’ Arthur mumbles.

They’ve not even kissed yet and Eames’ patience is waning but he’s got sense enough to wait for Arthur. Has got the impression that people who don’t wait for Arthur regret it. 

‘ Shhhh’ Arthur mutters into Eames’ cheek, except Eames hasn’t said a word, and he kisses him finally, pulls daftly at his belt. ‘ Take this off.’

He lets himself be backed into the settee, his trousers round his ankles, knees bracketing hips. Arthur’s pants cling to his thighs and Eames wants to take him into his mouth, taste him in the back of his throat. As a consolation prize, he slips his hand into the back of Arthur’s pants and traces his mouth with his own. Arthur crumples sidelong into the cushions and pulls Eames over top of him. He catches Arthur’s ankle and uses it to push his knee up out of curiosity. His hips open nicely and it allows them more room for friction.

‘ Oh, fuck— oh.’ Arthur whispers digging into Eames’ shoulder.

Eames fumbles Arthur’s leg up and grinds down into his hip until they’ve both spent in their respective pants. Quick, clean, convenient. Eames goes limp overtop of him and he can feel Arthur’s breathing, through his nose into his belly and back again. When he manages to lift himself back up Arthur is already half asleep. 

‘ You can stay if you want.’ He mumbles rolling onto his side. There are freckles spattered across the plane of his back that Eames takes note of. Eames goes about redressing and he watches Arthur wrestle with his damp pants before ceding.

‘ You’ve no room for me on such a meagre settee.’

‘ Settee.’ Arthur repeats thoughtfully, nosing into the decorative pillow propped under his cheek and pulling the throw off the back of it to swaddle himself with. ‘ Suit yourself.’

Suddenly, Eames can hear the sound of the city again; a car screeches to a halt down the way and someone lets loose on their horn. He tugs on his jacket and he can’t tell whether Arthur’s still awake or suddenly asleep but there is a stillness that pervades the room and continues to regardless of the street noise and of the baby batter half dried against both their thighs. Eames shuts the door quietly behind himself.


	3. 2ème

Eames is in the midst of a harrowing Saturday night bathing his flea-ridden feline companion when he receives a text. He responds promptly, much to the dismay of Francis who is drenched and feeling betrayed, because he certainly has not forgotten the voracity of the flexible young American. Arthur’s apartment is nine tube stops and one transfer from Eames’, so, nearer than his last dwelling but still just out of reach. 

Arthur answers the door in his shirt sleeves, dark grey trousers tailored to his ankles.

‘ I just got in from work.’ He says by way of explanation. ‘ Do you want a drink?’

Eames nurses a Guinness for the brief time that they’re not attached at the mouth. Arthur drops to his knees before him and pulls open his flies. His hair is downy soft under Eames’ hand.

‘ Bloody— Christ.’ He chokes out rutting himself in the general vicinity of Arthur’s mouth.

He tightens his hold in his hair as Arthur pulls his pants aside and opens his mouth; skin on skin. Arthur glances up at him and Eames is stricken by the youthfulness behind his eyes. Eames pushes him back when he starts to feel a tingling in his toes and is sure they’ll go dead. 

Arthur’s hips pin Eames to the countertop.

‘ How old are you?’ Eames asks and Arthur gives him a look.

‘ It’s a little late for that don’t you think?’ He laughs.

Eames’ eyes linger on his mouth and the reddened skin around it. 

‘ Don’t be facetious.’ 

Surely, no teenager wears three-piece suits and surely they don’t move halfway around the world to do it, now do they?

‘ Twenty-eight but I can be seventeen if you want.’ He says batting his eyelashes. 

Eames hums under his breath and goes about removing Arthur’s necktie.

Arthur stops him and bats his eyelashes. ’ I won’t put out unless you take me to the school dance.’

Eames puts on a show of considering it. ’ You really want to be the poofters of the prom?’

Arthur scoffs as his necktie flits to the floor and he tries to intercept Eames’ fingers already making quick work of his shirt buttons. Eames brushes him off and strips him down to his undershirt.

Arthur finally resigns himself to being undressed but: ‘ I’d like a white peony boutonniere and no you can’t wear a suit from a thrift shop. ‘

Eames takes pause, still distracted by the warm skin under his fingertips. ‘ Beg your pardon.’

‘ Don’t kid yourself.’

‘ Alright, that’s enough out of you. Now, be a dear and show me to the bedroom.”


	4. 13ème

Eames is delighted to find that Arthur snores when he’s drunk. He is laid out flat on his stomach as if he were a ballerino; one leg extended (allongé) the other hiked up (balloné) on what had been Eames’ pillow. In contrast, his hands are folded neatly under his cheek as if he were a contented putti dozing on a perfectly puffed cloud of cotton. Eames is propped against the headboard, pillow depraved, reading a book that chronicles 300 years of the Ashanti people when the sound that escapes Arthur draws his gaze. It comes from somewhere nestled deep in his chest. It’s soft around the edges and Eames watches for half a beat before reopening to the page his thumb was holding. Arthur stirs and Eames stills. He rolls haphazardly to his other side and returns to his snoring with the sole of his foot pressed to Eames’ calf.


	5. 23ème

The room is four thousand square feet and almost completely congested from corner to corner. It’s bathed in flashing light and glowing with perspiration. Arthur is holding onto the back of Eames’ shirt, the both of them in search of an exit. Arthur is singularly focused on his own feet, determined to remain upright when he walks directly into Eames’ back. He pokes his head over his shoulder to find an angular looking bloke with coiffured black hair smiling at Eames like a great white intent on dinner. They exchange brief pleasantries entirely consumed by the thrumming bass before Eames reaches around to take Arthur by the hand. 

The fresh air hits them like a ton of bricks. 

‘ Oh, fuck.’ Arthur groans taking a deep breath. ‘ Never has London air smelt so good.’

Eames laughs and pulls him in tow across the street. ‘ That bloke in there was the worst shag of my life.’

Arthur pauses. ‘ You slept with him?’

For a moment Eames second guesses his lack of filter. ’ Once or twice. ’

Arthur scoffs and pulls his hand away.’ You said it sucked.’

‘ Oh, it sucked, alright.’ Eames says laughing to himself and Arthur elbows him in the side. 

They’re both smiling and realistically this conversation is loaded but in this moment it seems almost light-hearted. He glances at Arthur as they pass by a man taking a casual piss against a bus shelter. ‘ You’re not jealous, are you?’

Arthur denies adamantly but: ’ How many people have you slept with?’ he says 10 minutes later as they’re approaching the kebab stand. Eames hums to himself. It’s a fair question, he thinks. 

’ I couldn’t say an exact number.’

‘ So, not single digits then.’

‘ Mm, no I suppose not. Double, I reckon. Nowhere near triple, mind you-’ The man behind the counter is scowling at them and Eames gives him his most cordial smile. ‘ I’ll take two lamb shwarma, mate.’

Eames turns over a handful of coins and a crumpled bill and they shuffle themselves to the side to stand with the other desperately waiting club goers. ‘ I’ve slept with seven people.’ Arthur says crossing his arms and leaning against the give-way post.

Eames squints at him. ‘ That’s a bloody miracle, isn’t it? What with how absolutely stunning you are and the thousands of blokes dying to have their way with you.’

Arthur rolls his eyes but he also smiles.


End file.
